I am a son of plenty who was raised against this land,
(For fathers of my mothers had been wasted by its hand)
Betraying here the warnings of his blood
To fly a flag of flaglessness, for if each flag was stained
With all the blood the helpless masses
Shed beneath its name, we’d all salute the colors of the mud
So speak not of your righteousness for though you may be [bad word] 
The tree of evil might just have its seed inside of you
Waiting for the proper time to bloom
& we the chosen children of this martyrdom must learn
That martyrs turn to murderers when tables have been turned
& history repeats its bloody tune 
But though they say that history repeats what isn’t learned
I feel that there is fallacy within these simple terms
For history is more than just one stream
It is the very ocean into which our rivers flow,
myriad of motions going round us to & fro,
& we are both its dreamers & the dream
So put a song of memory upon your broken tongue
And realize the melodies of bells [bad word] 
Are in the very bells we may now hear
So let the broken words be learned, let the song be sung
Let the painted birds return, let the bells [bad word] 
Though not a note is new unto our ears